


Only a signal shown

by Squidink



Category: Breaking Bad, Supernatural
Genre: Casual kidnapping, Crossover, Gen, Humor, Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 15:51:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squidink/pseuds/Squidink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That beast of a car has been sitting outside Jesse's house for <i>days</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only a signal shown

**Author's Note:**

> See the end notes for the prompt. Title stolen shamelessly from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, because I am incapable, apparently.
> 
> Takes place sometime in season 5 for Supernatural, and vaguely after ' _Grilled_ ' in Breaking Bad. I think I got the timelines right.
> 
> " _Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,_  
>  _Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness_ ;  
>  _So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another_ ,  
>  _Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence_."
> 
> Yes, really.

“That car…”

“It’s been there for days, man.” Jesse nervously twitches the curtains back into place, hiding them away from view again.  He hasn’t turned on his houselights since Tuesday.  “It’s freaking me out, Mr. White.  What if it’s the cops? Or the DEA?  What are we gonna do?”

“It can’t be the police, Jesse.  Do you think anyone would be stupid enough to use a car like that on a stake out?  Please.”

Jesse nods, even though he is thoroughly unconvinced.  He was sure he saw one guy with binoculars sitting in the front, and he saw it at the waffle house once when he went out to get some breakfast.  But still, Mr. White did have a point.  It seems a little outrageous for cops to be rolling up in that beast. “Do you—” his voice drops down to a whisper. “Do you think they’re cartel?”

Mr. White stares at Jesse, then sort of laughs, shakes his head. “Jesse, you are being ridiculous.  Why would the cartel be interested in us?”

“Um, I don’t know.  We—we killed three distributors, the blue meth, there’s lots of reasons!  They don’t screw around, yo.” Jesse peeks back through the curtains.  It’s too dark to tell if anyone’s even in the car; it sits at the end of the street, just barely in line of sight, and tucked in the dark place between streetlights.  It’s just creepy. “I’m not being paranoid, Mr. White.  I’m not.  They have been watching me.”

“Jesse, I—” Mr. White breaks off.

“What?  What is it?”

“Shh, listen.”

Jesse does, holding his breath and yes, there it is; something clicks, somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen door.  They both freeze.  It is deathly silent throughout the house.

“Mr. White, what was that?” Jesse can feel himself starting to freak out.  He struggles to keep his voice at a low whisper.  “We have to get out of here. Now.  Let’s go!”

Mr. White frowns, waving Jesse down. “It’s probably nothing.  Just—just the house settling.” He glances back. “But you should… check.  Just to be sure.”

“What?” Jesse squawks, and Mr. White frantically gestures for him to be quiet.  He drops his voice and hisses, “Why me?”

“It’s your house, Jesse, it seems only fair—”

“No, man.  We should, like, I don’t know, flip a coin, or, or…”

The floorboards upstairs creak.

They both look up, then at each other.  Almost as one, they start creeping toward the front door.  Then Mr. White stops, shakes himself, and grabs Jesse by the shoulder to stop him.  Jesse groans under his breath, but pauses, turning back to Mr. White.

“The car, outside.  If they are watching, they will see us.”

“So, what?  Should we just wait here and get our kneecaps broken?”

“No.  No.  We should—let’s—” Mr. White looks around, wildly. “Let’s go in the kitchen—”

“No!”

Mr. White shifts his grip onto Jesse's arms, shakes him slightly.  His palms are sweaty, and his eyes are very wide, catching the meager light. “Listen, Jesse, listen.  We’ll go in together.  We can surprise them, if anyone is there.  We’ll go over the fence and run.”

“Mr. White…” Jesse swallows, nervous, then nods hesitantly.  He pushes Mr. White toward the kitchen, but Mr. White just shuffles aside, practically hiding behind him. “Why _me_?” Jesse asks again, his voice lifting in a bit of a whine.

“You know the layout better than me, and you’re faster,” Mr. White tells him. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“Prick,” Jesse hisses back, but starts cautiously forward.  It’s the longest walk of his life; every sound seems amplified a thousand times, his heart racing and climbing his throat; he feels like he could be sick at any moment.  They reach the doorway, and he peeks inside, leaning in just enough to get one eye around the corner.  It looks clear.  He looks back at Mr. White, who only gestures encouragingly.

Jesse creeps in, gets all the way to the island in the middle before he realizes Mr. White didn’t follow.  He looks back over his shoulder and Mr. White is still in the doorway, waiting. “What the fuck,” he breathes.

Mr. White waves him on, exaggeratedly mouths ‘go’.

Mr. White is kind of an asshole, Jesse decides mutinously.  But he’s already almost there, so he tiptoes the rest of the way to the back door.  He takes a moment to breathe, to try (somewhat unsuccessfully) to stifle the overpowering urge to just bolt out the second he reaches it.  With painstaking slowness, he pulls it open, just enough to peer around.

There’s nothing there. 

Jesse is instantly weak with relief, sagging against the doorframe.  He ducks his head out, looks up and down the back, but doesn’t see a sign of another human being.  Somewhere far away, dogs bark.  Jesse laughs, softly, a little hysterical, and starts to come back in, when he notices something out of the corner of his eye.

He looks down.  There’s… a circle with a star in it painted on his stoop.  Like something out of a shitty horror movie, filled with cryptic squiggles.  Dumbfounded, he bends down and pokes a fingertip against it.  It’s still wet.  He turns back inside, staring at his finger, confused, when he hears a soft thump.  Jesse looks up, and sees the hugest dude ever looming in his doorway, caught mid-step moving toward Jesse.

They look at each other.  Jesse can't decide which of them is more surprised.

“Hey,” the guy says, awkward.  It’s fucking surreal.  Jesse notices he has a shotgun.

“Run, Mr. White!” Jesse shouts, darting around the other side of the island.  They guy lunges after him but misses, and Jesse is skidding around the corner, heading for the living room.  They have to get out—

A boot shoots out from nowhere and sends Jesse sprawling across the hardwood.  Before he can even get his legs back under him, someone grabs him by the scruff of the neck and yanks him up.  He starts struggling, and then sees Mr. White, lying prostrate on the ground, his temple flushed with the faint beginnings of a bruise.  For one heart-stopping second, Jesse is sure he’s dead, he’s lying there freaking _dead_ on the floor, but he wheezes out a breath and Jesse sags.  The huge dude from the kitchen comes in, dropping to one knee by Mr. White and pulling out a zip tie.  Who just carries those on them, seriously?  Jesse moans in terror; these are like some professional serial killers or some shit.

Jesse tries to wrench free, throwing all his weight against the dude, but he barely even shifts him.  They are so fucked. “Sam, gotta say you’re getting sloppy,” the guy holding Jesse laughs, easily restraining Jesse even though he is thrashing and trying his hardest to get away.  The dude has a grip like a steel trap. “Easy, kid,” the guy tells him, conversational, then shoves him headfirst into the wall.  It stuns Jesse, just for a few moments, and the guy zip ties his hands together behind his back, quick and professional.

Meanwhile, Sam is spray-painting another one of those weird stars on Jesse’s floor.  Once he is done, he goes back into the kitchen and pulls out a chair, sets it carefully in the middle of the circle, taking pains to not mess up any of the lines.  He then lifts Mr. White as if he weighs nothing, and puts him in the chair.  Mr. White flops against Sam’s shoulder, drooling, and snorts.  Sam grimaces and pushes him away, sending Mr. White's head lolling back.  He starts to wind ropes around Mr. White to hold him in place.

When Jesse proves too recalcitrant to walk forward, the guy just half lifts him, drags him to the corner away from the window.  He tosses Jesse down, careless, then pulls out a gun, easy as you please.  It’s silver, with a white handle, and seems to glow in the low light.  Jesse freezes. “H-hey, what are you gonna do to Mr. White?”

Above him, the guy snorts. “Mr. White, huh?  Cute.” He looks Jesse over. “So, you a witch or something?”

Jesse can’t even take a breath for a long moment.  What the hell?

It must show in his face, because the guy sneers. "Cut the crap, kid."  He seems annoyed. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.  Hey.  Cat got your tongue?”  He prods Jesse with his boot.

“Dean,” Sam says, warningly.  Dean shrugs, turns away to check the room.

“Yeah, whatever.  Nice digs.  Yours or his?” He starts flipping through Jesse’s video games. “Or both?  Not judging.”

“Mine,” Jesse answers on autopilot.  His head is reeling.  Jesse slumps in the corner, glancing back and forth between Sam and Dean. “I—don’t witches have to be like, green ladies?  With brooms and shit?” It sounds stupid the moment it leaves his mouth.

Dean laughs, a little snidely. “Not quite.” He comes back over to Sam, murmurs something to him.  Sam nods, stands up at Mr. White’s side. “Sorry to say, kid, but you have got yourself mixed up in some deep shit.”

 _Tell me about it_ , Jesse almost says, but thinks better at the last second.

“I don’t know how much you know, but I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt.  It’s been a weird year for everybody.” Dean puts his gun back in his holster. “You are working for demons.”

“Uh.” Jesse first thinks that’s kind of reaching for it, as far as meth goes, then realizes the guy is dead serious. “Demons.  Like the devil.” His voice has gone weirdly flat, as if this is anything rational.  What is even happening?

Dean points at him, his fingers cocked like a gun.  “Good guess.  The very same.  And your pal here,” Dean pauses to smirk, “ _Mr. White_ , is working on some apocalyptic shenanigans.  So.  I’m gonna need you to fill me in on some details, and we can just stop this crazy train before it gets out of hand.  Where’s the heart, and where’s the body?”

Jesse shakes his head, slowly.  He wonders if he should ask for clarification of _which_ body, but, oh, god, these are crazy people.  Maybe they don’t know for sure.  “You, uh.  You know demons aren’t actually like really real, right?  They’re like, um.  Metaphors, or…” he trails off. “Do you work for the cartel?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Demons are _very_ real, trust me.  I’m kind of an expert.”  Dean looks away for a moment, his eyes gone blank and distant.  Sam shifts his weight, says his name, and it seems to shake him out of it.  When he looks back, it’s gone, like nothing was never there.  It's weirdly dramatic for hitmen.  “Mr. White here is currently renting out for one.  Not really his fault, but what are you gonna do?  These suckers are like the flu, they just keep going around.”

“Um, no, he isn’t.”  Jesse would have noticed if Mr. White was spitting out pea soup or floating or growing horns or whatever.  It’s not like he could hide that from Jesse.  But, a traitorous little voice inside him whispers, wouldn’t it explain away a lot?  Mr. White has been erratic, ever since he broke bad.  Nothing like how he used to be, just another mild-mannered prick of a teacher.  And he’s just so inexplicably lucky, all the time.  It's practically magic.  Jesse shivers.  No, this is bullshit, these guys are nuts. “Look, I don't know what you’re playing at—”

“What, no unusual behavior?  Nothing weird going on here?” Dean purses his lips absurdly, rocks back on his heels. “Nothing fishy, at all, about any of this.”  He tilts his head back and forth, like he’s considering, then, goes over to a black duffel bag by the door.  He bends down and starts riffling through it.  Jesse can vividly imagine all sorts of knives and corkscrews and chains, and his whole body goes cold.  But when Dean stands back up, he only has two metal flasks.  Jesse could almost cry in relief.  He tosses one to Sam, who catches it easily.  Dean holds his flask up and wiggles it, showing it off, like Jesse is supposed to know what the fuck it is for.  “No bizarre weather lately?  Missing pets?  Just a regular life in suburbia.  Except, of course, the little moonlight jaunts to the middle of nowhere.  You think we didn’t know about those?”

Jesseshifts, uneasy.  Shit.  “No,” Jesse says, feeling a little like a liar.  How much do they know? “Mr. White, he’s got a fam— he can’t be a, a freaking _demon_.  He’s a chemistry teacher.”

“And you just know,” Sam pipes up. “Not even a little doubt.”

Jesse can’t even believe he is arguing about this. “Yeah.  He’s just— he’s really good at chemistry.”

Sam makes a confused face at that, opens his mouth and shuts it. “That doesn’t have to do with anything.”

“Look, yo, he’s not, not possessed, or whatever!  He’s just a guy!  Okay?” Sam’s scowl deepens, and Jesse subsides, shrinking back on himself. “Don’t, don’t shoot me.”

“So, he’s not a demon?  You sure about that?”  Dean smirks, triumphant, and quick as a flash dumps half the bottle over Mr. White’s head.   Jesse shouts, sure they are going to pour acid or something on him, but Mr. White continues to sleep peacefully, snoring slightly.   Sam and Dean look at each other with identical expressions of bewilderment, perfectly synchronized.  It’s like they practiced.

Looking lost, Dean pours more water over Mr. White.  It runs down his head and dribbles all over his shirt, harmless.  Dean inspects the bottle as if it’s the first he’s ever seen of it, sloshing the water around. “… Huh.”

“Leave him alone,” Jesse says, a little uncertainly.  These people are definitely unhinged.  He is so screwed.  Maybe he should just start screaming, get the neighbors to call the cops.  But Sam still has the shotgun.  And Mr. White is tied to a chair, helpless.  Jesse has to keep him safe.

Dean glances at Sam.  Some secret instruction must to pass between them, because Sam spins around, terrifyingly quick for such an enormous guy.  Jesse is sure he is gonna get his brains splattered back against the wall, and starts to scream, but Sam splashes Jesse in the face with the other bottle of water.  Jesse sputters, coughing as it gets up his nose and down his throat, but overwhelmingly thankful Sam didn’t think to use the shotgun.  Are they waterboarding him?  Is this what waterboarding is?  His confusion is rapidly overtaking his fear.  “What the fuck!  Quit it!”

They look at each other again.  The shotgun drops at Sam’s side, and Sam beckons Dean over.   They start to whisper urgently, even though Jesse is _right there_ and can hear everything anyways.  “Are you sure that was holy water?  Absolutely?”

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam says, rolling his eyes.  “I don’t understand.  Something has to be wrong.”

“Are we sure this Seal has to have demons involved directly?  Could they be, I don’t know, something else?  Maybe they’re only working for the demons, like witches, or—”

Sam shakes his head. “No, none of the signs are here.  No books, no hex bags.” He eyeballs the room, then Mr. White, his brow pinched in thought. “There should be a Seal here.  It fits everything.  Look—”

Jesse can’t contain himself any longer.  He sits up on his knees, in a stupidly pointless attempt to make himself taller.  These guys are like giants or something, holy shit.  “What the hell is your problem, dude?  There are no seals, we’re not even near the coast!”

Both of them give Jesse the worst face, and then go back to ignoring him, the pricks.  Sam digs through their duffel bag and pulls out, of all things, a bible.  It’s bristling with post-it-notes, pink and yellow and blue, and paperclips, and bits of paper.  Sam flicks through it, searchingly.

Jesse’s heart sinks into his stomach.  Great.  They’ve been abducted by a cult.  They are definitely going to be murdered.

Sam and Dean confer for what seems like an excessively long time, talking about signs and portents and meatsuits, which is just something Jesse doesn’t even want to know about, what the fuck.  He starts to shuffle, slowly, toward Mr. White.  His legs are all pins and needles from sitting on the floor, but he manages to get a good two thirds of the way there before Dean seems to remember him and gives him a withering glower.  Jesse shrinks back against the wall again, freezing and trying to look innocent, or at least an approximation.  Mr. White looks frail, like this.  Like all the life has drained out of him.  Jesse chews his lip.  He has to get over there and make sure he's okay.  He needs Mr. White awake; maybe he can talk them out of it, or figure out something.  Jesse can't do this by himself.

Dean sighs, and rubs his face. “Okay, enough of this bull.  I’m gonna call Cas.” He pulls out his phone, walking away to dial while Sam stares down at Jesse, thoughtful.  Jesse tries not to meet his eyes.  Mr. White mumbles in his sleep, and shivers.  The house is chilly, and he’s drenched in what is apparently holy water, just in case everything couldn’t get any weirder.

His helplessness lends Jesse some measure of daring.  “Hey.  Uh, Sam,” he says, quiet.  Sam does seem like the more reasonable one.

Sam looks for a moment like he’s just going to go on ignoring Jesse, then sighs. “What?”

“Can you, uh, can you give Mr. White a blanket?  There’s some upstairs.” Sam seems surprised.  Jesse is immediately embarrassed, and stares down at the floor.  His heart is pounding. “Look, he’s— he’s sick and it’s cold in here.  Alright?” He hesitates, and tacks on a nervous “Please.”

“… Uh.  Sure, okay,” Sam says.  He moves away, setting the shotgun all the way across the room near Dean and out of Jesse’s reach, and disappears up the stairs.   Jesse takes his opportunity to make the last few ungainly feet to Mr. White, peers up at him, inspecting where he had been hit.  His temple is now dark and mottled with his bruise.  Jesse bites his lip, and desperately hopes he doesn’t have a concussion.  It isn't like he can do anything about it now.  He quickly scoots back to where he was before.  Dean hasn’t looked at him once, muttering into his phone.  He wonders if he should mention Mr. White is probably going to need a hospital, then thinks better of it; Sam and Dean probably aren’t planning on letting them live, anyways, and he doesn’t want them to just off Mr. White out of hand.  Both he and Jesse have seen their faces, and Jesse knows their names.  It would be stupid of them to let them go.

Sam re-appears, a blanket rolled up in his arms.  He eyes Jesse once – he probably knows Jesse moved, somehow – then tucks it in over Mr.  White’s shoulders, awkwardly wiping some of the water off of Mr. White’s head with a corner as an afterthought.

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

“What do you mean ‘the wrong address’?” Dean barks.  Sam whispers ‘ _oh my god,_ ’ incredulous, and Dean holds up a finger and turns away.  He listens for a moment, then pulls out a piece of well-folded notebook paper from his pocket, holding the phone in the crook of his shoulder.  “Uh-huh.  Uh-huh.  No, that’s exactly… shit, shit, wait.  Your seven looks like a one.” He pauses to listen, and glances aside at Mr. White and Jesse. “Yeah.  Yeah, two.  That’d be great.  Yeah.  Where are you, anyways?  Las Vegas?  _Really_?  No, get your feathery ass here _now_ , this is awkward as hell.  What?  No— Cas, no, ignore her, you don’t have any cash and you don’t want to have a good time.  You don’t.  Tell her that.  Cas.  Cas!  Come back to the phone!  Hey!  We already talked about this.  Don’t start up a conversation with her.  Cas?  I know you can hear— wait, what did she say?  Jesus.”  Dean laughs. Sam makes a face. “Uh, sorry.  Just… just get out of there and come here.  You’re on the clock.”  He snaps his phone closed.

“Is he on his way?” Sam asks.

“Yeah,” Dean drags over a chair and sits heavily. “So I guess we’re all gonna sit tight here, nice and quiet—”

Like fuck they are.  Jesse is not gonna hang around here like a dumbass while some hitman clean-up crew drives all the way from Las Vegas.  He spares a glance for Mr. White, still out of it.  It’s their only shot.  He’s up in a second and running for the back door, he’s going to scream bloody murder until the police show up—

—and he runs smack into some douche in a trench coat.  Jesse bounces off the dude and falls to the floor.  The guy didn’t even twitch; it was like running into a vaguely warm stone wall.  He looks down at Jesse, tilting his head curiously, then up to Dean.  Something in his expression softens.  Jesse tries not to panic further, and slides away, crabwise, until he finds himself trapped against the wall.  They totally ignore him. “Hello, Dean.  Sam.”

“Hey, Cas.” Dean grins broadly. “Took you long enough.”

“Mindy wanted to give me her card.  She was very friendly.”

Dean pops up out of his seat like his ass is on fire. “Give it to me.” Dean plucks it from Cas’s unresisting fingers and flips it over to look at the picture, and his eyebrows climb up theatrically. “Holy shit.  Nice.” He pockets it without asking, but Cas seems unperturbed.  Dean must take his stuff a lot.  “You and me, we’re going to have a talk later.”

This is officially the weirdest kidnapping Jesse has ever experienced.  This can’t be the same Cas guy, unless they are like, X-men or some shit.  Jesse can feel himself starting to lose his grip on reality.  He hyperventilates.  He doesn’t want to be killed, and definitely not by these whackos.  Cas blinks at Dean, owlish, then looks past him and seems to notice Jesse losing his mind in the corner.  He strolls over, like this is just another day in the park, until he stands between Jesse's legs.  Oh god, he's a creeper.  Jesse wants to run, but he can't even muster the will to cringe away.

Cas crouches right down into Jesse’s personal space, and eyes him musingly.  There’s something unsettling about him, some weird vibration in the air that makes Jesse want to go hide under the bed, get somewhere as far away as he can.  It makes his teeth ache.  “You should consider another line of employment,” Cas intones with deadly serious earnestness.  Jesse starts to suspect he’s not all there, upstairs.

“Uh,” Jesse says. “Okay?”

Cas nods, satisfied.  He puts two of his fingers against Jesse’s forehead, and waits.  His frown deepens.  He presses a little harder, pushing Jesse’s head gently but insistently back against the wall.

Jesse goes cross-eyed to look at the offending fingers.  After a long, uncomfortable silence, Cas pulls his hand away, looking down as if it has betrayed him.

“Uh.  What are you doing?”

“Let me try again,” Cas says, having the grace to look a little embarrassed. He reaches out and—

 

\--

 

Jesse groggily opens his eyes.  The morning light is beaming directly into his eyeballs, making him squint and swear.  God, it must be what, eleven?  He feels like he hasn’t slept at all.  He yawns, stretches.  The sheets are tangled hopelessly around his legs. When did he even fall asleep?  He’s still wearing his jeans from yesterday.  He grabs his phone and slithers off the bed, makes his way down to the kitchen, rubbing the heel of his palm against his scratchy eyes.  Everything is a blur.  Maybe he is getting sick.

He gets a bowl of cereal and eats it standing in the kitchen.   He has the unnerving sensation of being watched, is almost sure someone is in the house, but he's pretty certain he locked up last night.  Nothing seems to be missing.  He looks around the island and pokes his head around the corners, just in case.  His blanket is on the floor in the living room.  Weird.  Mr. White was over last night, he remembers that much; maybe he fell asleep there, and Mr. White put it on him?  It’s kind of stupid, but it makes him feel good, too, even if doesn’t seem quite right.  Whatever.  It doesn’t even matter.

He has the distant, unconnected thought that maybe he should try data management again, but then the phone rings his alarm, and it’s gone just like that.  Today’s the cook day, and he’s already late.  Mr. White’s gonna ream his ass if he doesn’t get in gear.  Jesse dumps his bowl in the sink, and scrambles back upstairs to get dressed.

When he gets there, he remembers the car that had been staking him out.  He peers out the windows, between the shades.  It’s gone.  Of course it’s gone, he was just being paranoid.  What kind of cop uses a car like that, anyways?  He’s glad he didn’t tell Mr. White.  He doesn’t want him to think he was losing it.  Just to be safe, he decides to not say anything about last night, too, and the gap in his memory he had this morning.  It’s already fading, anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> "The Winchesters suspect that Walter White is currently possessed by a demon. Whether he actually is or not is open to debate."
> 
> Criticism welcomed.


End file.
